The Fresh Hyaline Line
by lye tea
Summary: Joker has an interesting thing to tell: there is no real difference between civil obedience and disobedience. It comes down to the basic slaughter. /Joker x Rachel/
1. I

**The Fresh Hyaline Line**

_They are like the scum to be pitied,  
Entrenching themselves deep—far and shitted in  
In the worst of society  
In the conformity  
In the Fat messes they call "civilization"._

**I.**

Today, he thinks he wants to kill her.

She visits him in the asylum (where dead bodies and broken minds come to stay and pray) and brings him papers upon piles of "official agenda". She smiles ever-so politely and makes small talk. He puts up with her shit and just grins.

And smacks his lips enigmatically, making and lengthening the sounds to send her reeling—

Flung and sharp, he snaps back the line and catches the new fish he's caught ("Rachel Dawes," she introduces). And never does he ever say his name, never admits it like a common criminal.

"I'm one in a million, beautiful. Because, you see, what I want is what the _world_ wants, only the world doesn't know it yet."

Nauseated, sickened to her stomach and heart, Rachel leans back in the hardback chair and stretches out her legs and takes a long, hard look at him. And sees: an imperious face riddled with a wincing winsome smile.

"A name, please, that's all I want."

"Oh just call me Smiles."

He laughs, she twitches.

And like he promises (before the meeting commenced) he gives her a dashing smile, spreading his cheeks wide and brutal and puckers his lips like he's waiting for a kiss.

"Don't you just wanna kill me?"

"What?"

"Do. You. Want. To. Kill. Me?"

"Why?" She barely dares to whisper.

"Because you envy me, of course!"

He laughs again.

He is always, always laughing—it seems.

. . .

Behind tightly shut and guarded walls (there are no doors or windows) he reads the news religiously. Memorizes the words (near verbatim, hearing and sounding them out de-libe-rate-ly) and rehearse speeches he composes back to himself. _You see_…

People are easy to read and manipulate.

Cut them, slice them, anyway it's done, they beg for mercy—for _pleas_ of _compassion and humanity_—before the knife even goes in.

Slip, slip, _slippery slippity slip_, he toys with them like training a circus lion (only he is the lion in this game). Slip, slip, their minds go blink.

Testing limits, now _that_ is a great suggestion.

. . .

Everything burns and everything spoils. So what matters is spoiling the fun before it can burn.

. . .

All of a sudden, he wakes up in the middle of the night with an epiphany ringing from ear to ear. He grins insanely and silently cheers: he's got it figured out (the entire world).

There is nothing worse than uncertainty. And there is nothing that people hates more than leaving their "fates" up to _chance_. And to play God, he just has to learn to mold them into soft clay and bake them just right—without scorching.

So when the plaster is shaped and the design refined, he will have Gotham—the world—bowing down. To _chance_.

It's like anarchy in the most poetically _beautiful _fashion (something he thinks she'll be proud of).

. . .

"Choices don't do anything for you, and neither do explosions. You need some…uh…some sort of _display_, an explosion that is _properly_ flashy. It don't have to be _expensive_ or anything. I mean, it's the sentiment that counts, don't you agree?"

The nurse pauses and stares at him, not knowing (wanting) what to say.

"I think I just broke my mind. But you've probably broken yours a long time ago."

. . .

That girl, Rachel—Something, never comes again. But he still remembers her (the face, the air, the young and conceited look of scorn she wears).

And when they meet again in some distant future or life, he will know precisely what to say.

He has it prepared, inculcated flawlessly. Amazingly, even for him, he adds.

. . .

_There is no such thing as justice_.

. . .

He sings capricious ditties and tunes he writes in the mornings, before the sun rises. None of the nurses or damn doctors comment (they're too stupid and afraid, he laughs). But one of the other patients is getting pissy and haughty and choking on ugly sanctimony.

And so, as a humane euthanasia, he decides to eliminate the offending idiot.

The kindest mercy killing the city has ever witnessed. And he, like all good judges and perfunctory saints, turns the killing into a dealing.

Humble too.

. . .

A name for himself. A real one, one that defines and declares his presence (essence) that makes him wholly _him_. And holy, to demonstrate just how loving (the punitive) he is towards them.

Filth. Hideous, grotesquely bent, billowing blithely _filth_.

"The Joker, what say you? Not that it really matters, you being one of them."

The nurse (a different, second, one) emits a nervous laugh.

"And pop goes the weasel! By the way, did I ever tell you how I got these scars? I think they make me look quite…charming…but some don't think so. What say you? Again, not that it matters."

And pop went the weasel.

Her head is smeared in blood with a hole shot right through.

Joker leaps out of the window and laughs, running free and home.

Rough and violent, he runs scarlet (scrapped) hands through his hair, streaking strands luminous and bloody-red. _Oh ho-ho, hee hee, ha ha…ah ha ha_.


	2. Blood Kiss

**The Fresh Hyaline Line**

_"We live in a rainbow of chaos."_ —Cezanne

_Government is real made surreal made unreal._

**II. Blood Kiss**

If theories persist untreated, they become incurable Truths. And out of the asylum, Jack the Ripper-Napier stumbles, and through the window and onto the streets. Surrounded by ink and bloody joys, he lights up a cigarette and immediately crushes the thing.

_Vile_ thing, _disgusting_ thing. He doesn't know why he ever smoked, even once (just for fun).

It's been years since they've let him step outside and smell the freshly laundered air (washed by God Himself no less) and feel the wind whistling through his stringy hair. And this is when he feels most at peace.

Almost like he is human again, just like any of these mindless toys off the street. The muttering retreats. Of random meets and shuffling, dusty, weary feet.

"Gotham is most beautiful in its darkness."

(The taxi driver gives him a quizzical stare through the rearview mirror.)

. . .

Rachel rises promptly at seven every morning, jogs (sometimes), and has her morning cup of coffee by eight. This is a routine that does not waver. It is a ritual that controls its own course and thoughts. And Rachel all too happily obeys (it gives her a sense of security).

She exits her apartment in a modest suit and sensible shoes. Her arms clutch a stack of papers, gathering them tightly to her chest.

The sun shines directly on her face. Rachel shivers, thinking she's being watched. And swiftly shrugs the feeling off: _left foot, right foot_. Baby steps and no-nonsense rationale.

Looking both ways, she steps into traffic.

. . .

"A shot of gin."

"You've been downing those things like they're water. I'm warning ya, buddy, it ain't good for ya."

"Why do you keep looking away? Why…so angry…so serious? Do my scars, perhaps…ah _offend_ you?"

He leans forward and stares intently, unnervingly.

Never blinking.

_These scars, you see, were the result of a _very_unfortunate misfortune_.

My father – Was a very cruel, cruel man. Drunk too much and liked to hit. Some would even call him sadistic. And one night, well, the story is actually ex_treme_ly amusing. One night, no, no, don't look away now.

I had a wife –And was she beau-ti-ful. The most gorgeous, heavenly woman in the world. But she had this addiction, and she just wouldn't stop _nagging_. And I couldn't take it anymore. And one night…

Jack and Jill – My sister, ten years younger than me. You didn't think I had a sister? I did, and let me tell you something: she had the prettiest mouth ever created. But she had a terrible—just_horrific_—habit of sucking her thumb. And one night—

"I'll tell you if you want to know. Ask, but be honest about it."

The bartender shrivels away into a water-starved bud. But he could still smell the hot, caustic traces of hard liquor on the speaker's breath. And like an acid, his skin starts to burn (just below the part where his chin starts to quiver).

. . .

Jack never understood why people have to work. It's simple: life. There are no eternal obligations and regulations, no infallible moral code to adhere to. And best of all, there is no such thing as responsibility.

Except to each his own.

Hunger is hunger, hunger becomes desire, becomes food. Hunger does not translate into _payroll_.

He grabs the muffin and chants out a thanks. Gratification and gratitude, they were the only necessary standards to be followed. Everything else, why, they were all trifle.

They are all animals in tuxedos and dipping Chanel dresses. They wear their Rolex watches and worship the damned, the detested, the depraved. And by doing so, they become like that too.

"…Next to, of course, God and America, I love you land of the pilgrims'. Say! Can you see by the dawn's early? My country _'tis of centuries_." He spoke and drank rapidly a glass of water.

Th_ee_ co_ming_s. And their speeches. Their dirges and their elegies. Upon the granite countertop and upon the marble epitaph, are sprawled a hundred poems of greatness.

(Their being the operative word.)

These politicians.

And then, Jack gets this crazy idea. It's almost as good as a forthright insurrection.

. . .

La dee dee dee, da da…

Fingers drunk-tap-drum on the books and hands dance across the musty pages—searching. _Yearn, learn_.

"By jingo by gee by gosh by gum."

By v by free by _me_.

Me. He settles on that.

. . .

One night, in his never alleviated lonesomeness, he visits another bar. Purely by accident, just happened to stumble in (shelter from the cold, home for a moment). And over by a tall, imposing booth sits a fat lady.

He approaches her, suave and debonair, making sure to comb back the messy, greasy hair.

"Why hello there, darling. Don't you look like an Anna-Chelsea. Is that your name?"

The woman glowers and mumbles something about lunatics and the full moon and goes back to her drink (dry, sweet sherry).

"Haven't your parents ever taught you any manners? It's not good to ig_nore_ someone trying to strike up a conver_sa_tion."

"Look, I don't know who the hell you are, but I sure as hell know who I am. And I am not this Anna-Chelsea whoever she is. So I'd app_re_ciate it if you would leave."

"Now you've hurt my feelings. I think you should apologize. I know! Why don't you smile for me?"

. . .

He has his guns (like they their sons). He has his knives (and they their wives). He has his devices (and they their vices).

They have her, he has her perfectly.

. . .

The Scarecrow is not an entity to be feared, he wants to explain to the ignorant masses. The Scarecrow is a facsimile, a sham, a something that is to be pitied and mocked. It has the loud, obnoxious pretentions of a criminal, but it is really a petty, incompetent Average.

_But I, on the other hand_…A true genius.

Plus, the Scarecrow is so adamant in maintaining his identity, his worthless worth. And it is no fun in keeping everything so stagnant.

Zero empathy, zero tolerance, but it is wise to be open-minded. And creative, now, _that_ is a must.

. . .

At noon, Rachel extracts herself from the monotony and distracts herself with a pastry from the bakery across the street.

Every day, for the past week or so, she keeps seeing a stranger there—sitting, amused and wry—looking at her. Wondering what she is up to. Wondering always at a distance.

And even though she wants to demand just what is his problem, she bites her tongue and grabs her snack and walks out. Stomping a bit just to subtly get her message through. And when she did that: he laughed.

Making her blood run cold. Stiff, the corpse is tossed and sealed.

. . .

He becomes obsessed and acts almost like a stalker. But one with sense and reason, and that is sufficient.

(As for this Batman fellow, Jack couldn't care less. Pitiable, nearly. How low these modern heroes have sunk.)

My oh my.

. . .

Acquiring stealth is a tricky process. Jack never was one to be quiet and sneaky. He likes grand schemes and machinations, likes being noted for his brilliance. Being paid due respect is the mantra he lives by.

So, it has taken him a very, very long time to practice creeping in and out. And he is very, very relieved to discover that she sleeps like a purse of unrefined, unadulterated salt.

"It is the right time, the prime time…rock the night away."

Jack wields a knife expertly, can carve names (and faces) from the thin, chilled atmosphere.

When Rachel wakes up the next morning (ready for her morning run & steaming mug) she tastes copper on her lips and feels an odd, newly formed cut on her left cheek.

Small, it stings like a cordial calling or reminder.


	3. Over the Cuckoo's Nest

**A/N: **A slight diversion from the main plotless plotline.

* * *

**The Fresh Hyaline Line**_  
_

_…a sentence is delicate…a sentence is telling_

**III. Over the Cuckoo's Nest**

**01. Air**

Air gets trapped in the lungs too damn much and suffocation is inevitable, and besides, he hated when she breathed.

**02. Apples**

"That's the original fruit of sin," he says and watches as she devours the fruit whole, savoring especially on the core.

**03. Beginning**

The Batman is _really_ starting to annoy him now, keeping her away half the night (when they could have been ren-dez-vous-ing, ah.

**04. Bugs**

They were just getting the kinks out when a horrific snarl came forced out, making his ears go mute and her eyes blind—relationships _never_ last for long.

**05. Coffee**

She was addicted to coffee, and he would have said she was his addiction if it didn't sound so stupid and clichéd.

**06. Dark**

Dark like his heart, dark like the empty place in the closet where The Wife once stashed the knives (so you don't hurt yourself, dear).

**07. Despair**

In tragedy and suffering, despair results because of not-knowing, which—he describes majestically—is easily solved by finding some _meaning_ (say, by _shooting_).

**08. Doors**

When one door closed, hers slammed shut (as did all of Gotham City's).

**09. Drink**

"Care for a drink, beautiful? What say, you and I, ah, _get to know each other_?"

**10. Duty Calls**

When duty calls, Batman and Joker come to spar and play—leaving her alone and distressing over nothing.

**11. Earth**

The earth moves and rumbles: the earth dares them to defy it and levitate off the paved roads and safety lines.

**12. End**

Ending is not finale because ending is only an intermission—mission to act.

**13. Fall**

Poor Miss Rachel Dawes had a gruesome incident today, fell off the balcony fifty stories up.

**14. Fire**

"I burnt my first wife up, but I won't ever do that to _you_, you, my dear, are just too pretty."

**15. Flexible**

He was a flexible man, able to listen and acknowledge nearly any fancy, and so, it was fate's fault that she was selected (he didn't care as long as he got a body either way).

**16. Flying**

"What kind of a bat can't fly?" Joker jokes, "A dead one!"

**17. Food**

Filet mignon is a snotty dish, and it matches her character like a gem (always wincing during sex, heartless bitch).

**18. Foot**

_Cinderella went to a ball, lost a slipper, and fetched a beau_—Rachel half wanted to ask if "Cinderella" was another one of his tasteless stories.

**19. Grave**

Harvey Dent gave her the graveyard shift (so they could be alone) and while she pretended the other didn't know (Joker was already planning a good housecleaning).

**20. Green**

Green is the color of money, of wealth, of _greed_ and oh, how he _loathed_ greed (and feverishly kisses all over her face).

**21. Head**

"Are you feeling all right, sweet?" the nurse asked and Rachel vehemently shook her head, scared and big-eyed from hallucinating.

**22. Hollow**

"_Look_," he orders and clasps onto her neck turning her limp body around like a desperate puppet, "they are the hollow men, and that—_I said _look—includes your precious, little Harvey Dent."

**23. Honor**

"Hey, I got it: Harvey _dented_ his honor, get it!" and Rachel is not amused.

**24. Hope**

There is no hope for any of us, she says this and cries harshly into his chest (there, there, he pets her) and pretends he is someone else.

**25. Light**

Light is energy but also reverts into matter, and Rachel sluggishly pulls herself out of his energy and into illuminated solid stages.

**26. Lost**

A little girl is lost, a little girl disappears, a little girl resurfaces twenty years later deranged.

**27. Metal**

He would have given her a genuine wedding ring (eager to see her shock and revulsion) and would have been _quite_ pleased indeed except even _that_ wouldn't be nearly as much fun as—

**28. Old**

Day by day he gets a little older, and she gets a little crazier (and soon, they'll finally be on the same page).

**29. New**

_Something blue, something new_: Rachel subconsciously shops for a wedding that'll never happen.

**30. Peace**

I've made my peace, why can't you make yours, _she wants to say and hesitates_.

**31. Poison**

The poison, in the wound, cannot be removed and such an interesting toxin, he finds it (her) enjoyable (in particular when squirming and writhing, oh wiggle-worm).

**32. Pretty**

Prettiness, he begrudges her that much.

**33. Rain**

Rain never falls on Gotham in long, lulling waves; always, always it hits hard and fast (raining down bullets instead of water).

**34. Sing**

"I have an amazing, A-class, astounding voice, and it can enchant any girl down to her knees."

**35. Roses**

As an amicable, loving prank he brings her roses one night (and watches calmly as they drug her into a narcotic sleep).

**36. Secret**

He could read her like a book, eliciting every secret she tries to stifle (as if she could).

**37. Snakes**

Snakes were evil, snakes were bad, and the Joker is something much worse.

**38. Snow**

Snow was her blanket away from him: in snow, he couldn't snatch her away without leaving lurid vestiges from muddied feet and bloodied lips.

**39. Spring**

Spring arrived early that year and along with it, the Joker faded into oblivion (and soon, she was the only one who remembered his name).

**40. Solid**

His body felt taut and sinewy as she wrapped her legs around his torso and felt him slicing in.

**41. Stable**

Wheat is a stable crop because wheat is common and disposable.

**42. Strange**

A stranger comes, and Rachel opens wide her door—towering he approaches, hands stuck out in violent-shaded gloves.

**43. Summer**

There was no season more unbearable than summer, because no other season was as hot and dangerous (just a misunderstanding, officer).

**44. Taboo**

It is taboo to sleep with the enemy, so she thought of him as no-one (just a random person along walked her way).

**45. Ugly**

"Once she said ugly, and once, she lost her cheeks: moral of the story, don't say ugly."

**46. War**

The war against Gotham's criminal elite was halted by a single (mad)man and recommenced when a woman was (almost) killed.

**47. Water**

Water like patience and attraction is exhausted after perpetual waste and use.

**48. Welcome**

Her welcome is icy, and her embrace is clammy and stiff.

**49. Winter**

White was her favorite, but (he thought) she looked better charred black.

**50. Wood**

Wooden tales sink: this has been all pretended and imagined.


	4. Lady Paramount

**A/N: **This story is turning very…AU. I'm making up almost all of the backstory

* * *

**The Fresh Hyaline Line**

_Lady is a lady is lovely  
Lady is arching the bow and string-  
ing the arrows through  
and Lady takes her hands and  
shoots the tip true  
and straight._

_Lady Paramount made the cut clean  
won the challenge and herself a title.  
Lady Paramount is entitled  
to a special bliss  
(how about a justified kiss?)._

**IV. Lady Paramount**

_...Rachel reflects her fine heart…_

In his younger and less insane days, he went to school like any regular boy. And the teachers would ask (sniffing their noses haughtily and wrinkling the corners of their lips, _oh really?)_ if he suffered a great deal at home.

The emphasis is stressed on Great Deal. As if he were flayed every night at home. Must have a drunken father and a whore-mother. Must be beaten and starved and—that explained the bruises and marks.

"Are you all right, sweetie? Would you like a cookie? You're all skin and bones…"

He lifted his head and gave some pitiable sighs. "Yes, please. I'm always so…uh…um hungry. I never get enough."

The teacher winced, retracting her claws into the exoskeleton (made of chalk-ashes and Shakespearian sonnets).

"Don't worry. You can tell me. They won't hurt you anymore."

Cautiously he turns a little to the left, twists in the hard plastic seat and sighs and _sighs_.

"Do you want to tell me who they are?"

No response.

"It's okay, don't worry about it. Is it your mom and dad?"

"Why—what—makes you, ha, think that?"

She eyed him suspiciously and leaves the subject alone.

A poor, poor little boy lost: he liked the ideal of that. And apparently, the rest of them did too.

. . .

The year he entered fifth grade is the year a new student arrived. Small and daintily made, the girl wears white dresses with a matching white lace ribbon stuck in her brown hair.

"Hello. What's your name?"

"Rachel." She smiled.

He did too. "Nice to meet you. Say, what grade are you in?"

"Kindergarten."

"Ah. Do you have a _boy_friend?"

"Yes, I have two."

"Really now. Who're they?"

"I don't know. They went away."

. . .

Rachel was absent from school for a week. Chickenpox, her parents announced with pauses and breaks and furtive blinks.

. . .

"Why're you sad, Rachel?" he asked out of the blue.

"Huh? How'd you know?"

"Never mind that, so why're you sad?"

"It's my friend, Bruce, he left and no one knows where he is."

"Do you miss him, Rachel?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to know where he is?"

"Tell me!"

"Are you sure? I don't know if you'd be able to take it."

"Hurry up and tell me!"

"Well, Rachel, he's dead."

. . .

He kept a constant watch over her (like a pesky shadow or irritating rash that never healed for good). Even when he vanished, he made sure she was still there—and aware.

But exteriorly, he was detached and dastardly amiable. There was nothing anyone could say to piss him off. And pissing him off became a goal for the entire class. Except for her: she simply avoided him.

_Fine by me_.

And fine with her.

. . .

He graduated and progressed to high school. She stayed behind to complete four more years. And every morning (when they stood to echo the Pledge) he wondered what she was doing, what she was _thinking_ and—most of all—what she really said while responding to the patriot's prayer.

"Pay attention, young man. I won't have you dosing off again. Insomnia. Do you think I am stupid?"

"Yes I do."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, I think you're very _stu_pid, Miss—Ma'am—whatever slave-driver name you want me to call you by."

"Detention."

"I don't think so."

He flashed out a gun (flushed the other students scampering and whimpering into emotional cacophony). He brandished the gun (in their faces, scaring them, engineering the panic & pandemonium he needed). And cocked the gun.

To fire.

Straight into the Missus' forehead: dead center, right between the eyes.

"Frankly, I've had enough of this shit. And I've had _more_ than enough of your idiocy. Let's finish this, shall we?"

He aimed the gun, sending off a wave of watery fission into the ceiling—reverberating absolutes off walls and conducting symphonies of grandeur by memory.

_Shanti, Shanti_.

"What happens when your ab-so-lutes fail?"

. . .

The police informed his parents, two normal people with normal lives (how the hell did two _normal_ adults produce a maniac?).

"Is he…crazy then?" the mother asked.

"We're not sure. We've got him monitored at the hospital under surveillance, but all he's been doing is ranting off nonsense. Something about 'oms' and being 'the avant-garde saint'. Do you know what that might mean?"

"No, my husband and I, we're both accountants. He seems perfectly _normal_ at home. Maybe it's that school and all those radical teachings," she looked at her husband, "I _told you_ we should have transferred him to that private academy."

"Let's not play the blame game, now. It's not the school, Mrs. Napier. You son is a psycho."

"Are you going to lock him away?"

"That or prison."

"Arkham."

They rose from their seats, shook hands, thanked one another (how kind, sorry for the inconvenience) and pranced out. The mother had her back rail-rod taut, and the father wiped his complexion eerily squeaky clean.

Bland, the cop grimaced in disgust at his vanilla coffee.

. . .

He whittled the infinite time away chipping at plastered brick and reading books. Copious upon mountains of books, wrenching his favorite lines free from the pages and quoting them back (abhorrently elegant and smooth) to the doctors and the nurses.

He devoured knowledge like drinking from the fountain at recess. Education, my dear, is wasted on the free! The elite, they know nothing about knowledge.

_Such a lady killer_.

The night nurses were his invariable companions, turning him into their confidants.

_This one had an infidelity. _Your husband is a liar and a cheat. You should divorce.

_This one had a disease_. It's fatal, no use in blind hope. You might as well spend the next three months basking in hedonism. Sex would be a good start.

_And this one was a mute_. Shocking, I know. I'm a God-given gift to heathen virginal priests everywhere.

. . .

Are you injecting me with some abstruse viral cocktail?

. . .

"I must warn you, Miss Dawes. He's…not right in the head."

She laughed, "That's why he's here."

"No I mean…even for an asylum inmate, he's unusual. Are you sure you want to continue?"

"I didn't come here for nothing, Doctor."

The man sighed and led her in.

"Are you a graduate student, Miss Dawes?"

"Post. Working as an assistant at the DA's office for the time being."

"Why are you here at a hospital?"

"I have a degree in medicine."

They walked down a dim hallway, and along the route (behind nailed-in doors) Rachel heard screeches. The doctor whistled a pleasant tune, mimicking the rhythms of strangled screams. And at the end, a piano played quietly.

Beethoven.

In minuets and motets, he was an artist nonetheless.

And the circle became complete, one revolution—one stealing sidereal life past.

On the swing when the pendulum curved back, a conversation was born (in unison with the same old, wholesome stars bursting to die).

"Why hello, beautiful. Never thought I'd see you again."


	5. Calico Jack

**The Fresh Hyaline Line**

_A hero dies tonight,_  
_a hero dies by the hour. A hero_  
_is a hero is still human. And_  
_a villain dies by the hour. A villain_  
_is a villain is still a hero too_.

**V. Calico Jack**

In the days of his youth, where there were prairies and forests still existed, he worked during the summers in a farm. And sometimes, he pretended he was a sailor adrift at sea, on an island waiting for a magic that would never be.

He was a dreamer to his core, from his tippy-toes to his rough-hewn top.

And when the other children in the daycare drew choppy suns and jagged faces, he dreamed of a paradise. Of an Eden (that he learned from his mother on Sundays) and of what the Moores called Utopia.

And sometimes, when he would get so fatigued from all that dreaming and desiring and wishing, he'd lie down on the grass and whistle. Songs and rhymes and anything that came to mind.

_Jack and Jill went up the hill_…

So on and so forth.

"Why are you always saying that?"

"Saying what?" Jack asked.

"That stupid saying. Who's _Jill_ anyway? Your _girl_friend?"

"I have an idea…do you want to see a magic trick?"

. . .

Jack's mother worked as an accountant and so did his father. They rode to the same office every morning and came home (six on the dot) every evening. And they expected Jack to be Just Like Them in every way. And when he came home with cuts and bruises, they were _quite_ astounded.

Demanded for the identity of the culprit.

Demanded for him to be nicer to the other neighborhood kids (after he explained that it hadn't been _intentional_).

Demanded for him to act just a bit more normal, more anything-but-a-freak.

"Yes, Mother. Yes, Father. I will try my hardest."

And they patted Jack on the head: _good boy_. Now go run and play (while Mommy and Daddy have a few martinis).

. . .

He liked to play pretend, often and always in solitude. He conjured heroic images and heroic names and reinvented himself as all of those. And even wore a magic cape. And flew into the night, enigmatic and charismatic and laden down with a tremendous anchor.

He was an actor and an artist.

But a magician first and foremost. And cards were his favorite game, and soon, he had perfected every trick in the book (and some outside the texts). He could send shuffling cards wailing—made his mother cry when she heard the strained voices. He could do so much (so little the hassle) and thought of when he could be _in_famous—

because fame was no fun, because fame was trite, was bound for failure, for the _fools_ who liked to visualize themselves as _great_.

Jack had got it to a pat, Jack could run over someone flat. (Jack had become a grungy sewer rat.)

. . .

"Jack, _dear_, would you please get out of those nasty clothes? I bought you a brand-new suit. Very handsome."

"It's vile and of the bourgeoisie!"

"My, my, that's a _big word_ for such a _small boy_."

"The proletariat will rise one day!"

"I wish you would stop reading those stupid propaganda pamphlets."

"Mom."

"Yes, dear."

"What does propaganda mean?"

. . .

He was seventeen when they arrested him, when they immured him with all the other crazies, when they declared him (officially) a sociopath. Jack nearly died of delight—_mission accomplished_.

He would go down in the halls of history. Where—when—Lady Time won't ever forget his face. She would love him best, kiss him in the right places with the sweetest touch and murmur gratitude and desire between his shoulder blades.

Occasionally, the doctors let him out, for good behavior, and allowed him to roam the streets and think for a moment that he was average. Plain Joe with the six-pack, kicker-keg of beer. And then, with strings tied to his neck, they reeled him. Push and pull, they always won.

But one day, everything changed.

A new doctor came along (introduced himself as Dr. Crane) and began quoting Nietzsche and Sartre and asked Jack if he would like to become a philosopher.

"There's no shame in being an intellectual," the doctor said complacently.

"No there isn't. But, ah, that isn't exactly _my_ cup of _tea_. I'm more into…tangible prospects."

"Then be a _tangible_ philosopher, make people _feel_ your ideals. How about that?"

Jack smacked his lips greedily, could almost taste the—

"Won-der-_ful_."

. . .

The day Dr. Crane was caught (and Arkham released) was a very, very sad day.

Now, he had no more excuses for killing. Now, he could only say _because it is exciting_. But now, he could be a hero.

. . .

Someone (without a head or wanted it removed) asked him why he liked to wear calico. Didn't you know? Know that it's so out-of-fashion, since the eighteen hundreds? _Didn't you know that, ya freak?_

No-I-Didn't. But thank you, thank you for this _marvelous_ trophy. (I like to keep collections, you see, of heads. Of maidenheads and boyheads.)

Calico Cat, Calico Jack. With chatoyant eyes and a wry, sly smile—_why_, Mr. Billionaire—he mesmerized the audience in ways no one else could. And sometimes, when cat and Jack became platitudes too, he would be a goldfish. Shimmer, the fin went out. Slimmer, he squeezed through coral caves (front doors) and into a Lady's bed.

Oh, Mr. Billionaire, you shouldn't have. (But thank you anyway for such a beautiful young woman.)

. . .

"And that, Hello Gorgeous, is the end of my autobiography. I, uh, _thank you_ for being so attentive."

(Rachel flinched visibly and gritted her teeth. She flashed open her eyes and thought she heard someone talking—the window slammed shut. _Must've been a cat_.)


End file.
